O siren of tresses peroxide, And heart that is hard as a flint, Blue orbs of complacency ox-eyed, That light at the mark of the mint, Ears only for jingle of joybells, A conscience as light as a cork-- You are wedded to follies and foibles, My Lady New York.

True, you have (not enough, tho', to hurt you) Your moods and your manners austere; You have visions and vapors of virtue, And "reform" for a time has your ear; But of chaste Puritanic embraces You soon have enough and to spare, And then you kick over the traces, And virtue forswear.

So go it, milady! Foot fleetly The paths that are primrose and gay; Abandon your fancy completely To follies and fads of the day. "Reform" is a something that throttles The joys of the pace that's intense-- Smash hearts, reputations, and bottles, And ding the expense!

The Ancient Wood is white and still, Over the pines the bleak wind blows, Voiceless the brook and mute the rill, Silence too where the river flows. Still I catch the scent of the rose And hear the white-throat's roundelay, Footing the trail that Memory knows, Over the hills and far away. I have only a pipe to fill: Weaving, wreathing rings disclose A trail that flings straight up the hill,

Let us have peace, and Thy blessing, Lord of the Wind and the Rain, When we shall cease from oppressing, From all injustice refrain; When we hate falsehood and spurn it; When we are men among men. Let us have peace when we earn it-- Never an hour till then. Let us have rest in Thy garden, Lord of the Rock and the Green,